


The Color of War

by grumpygrahams



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Reader Insert, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpygrahams/pseuds/grumpygrahams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle, Mirkwood is opened to those wounded. You follow and take refuge in the communal springs after fallen night. Thranduil joins you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Color of War

     War was never fair. War was not kind. War was not loving. War was the color of blood and war always came at an expense. You tears were long gone, far from the corners of your eyes as you slipped into the communal springs, shedding the borrowed gown to the yellow stone before you stepped in. The elves were gracious enough to take those who were wounded at the Battle of the Five Armies back to Mirkwood to heal them and release them at their own will. You stayed, not for the healed wound on your stomach, but for your brothers and sisters still recovering. Family borrowed from others, family adopted in your heart. Yours were all gone.

     You kept your eyes closed as you leaned back against the stonewall; the waters warm around you, easing your tired bones into something more pliable.

_‘They are miraculous as the elves, the waters as beautiful and as graceful. Go while no one is attending and be at peace with your loss.’_

     Peace wouldn’t come, you knew. Peace was the last thing on your mind. This was all for null, for greed of dwarves and greed of elves. Your kind, man, was only caught up in the glory, in the simple implication that you would be able to have a better land again. To allow Lake Town to flourish as it once did.

     “May I join you?” Earthy, deep, and rich. Your eyes opened slowly and you found it more funny than not that the Elvenking himself was asking for permission to use a spring meant for all. He stood at the very edge, toes flexing to curl around the stone’s lip before retracting, his arms crossed low on his stomach to hold the woven robe on his person.

     “It is large enough for two, I suppose.” You couldn’t ease the bitterness from your tongue and it was caught with a cool look from the elf. He may be a king but he is not _your_ king. You watch as he disrobes himself, looking away only when the cloth catches on slender hips and falls further to pool around his feet.

     The water moves in small waves as he enters, the slap of it against the yellow stone echoing in the vast room. The bath was indeed large enough for two, large enough for twenty even and yet Thranduil took his place opposite of you, arms spreading out behind him gracefully. You look back up; careful to keep your gaze above the crystal waters and allowed to see his own eyes upon you. They kept for a time.

     It was he who broke away first, tipping his head back into the waters to allow his hair to wet and when he exhaled he straightened back up, fingers dipping into the waters, circling them idly, giving the air of calmness.

     “You fought alongside the women today.” It was more of a statement than a question and it made you look up again; shifting a little on the stone shelf you sat upon. Your voice was tired, not small.

     “I did. War does not grant grace to anyone – no matter your age, your sex, or your title. War kills all.”

     Thranduil gives a small smile, a kind one, hiding the sadness that ached in his chest. He had returned home to his land, his gems back in place and yet everything still was not right and he hated it. He hated the emptiness that still took hold in his heart, in his head. He tipped his head back again for a moment, letting the water reach the tips of his ears, making him shudder.

     “You fight well for one of man. They are lucky to have you.”

     The compliment was a graceful one and it was one you would accept gladly. Your grandfather had taught you the way of sword and bow. You knew you were not as swift as an elf nor as strong as a dwarf, but you had taken your share of Orc head.

     “Thank you.”

     Thranduil took his gaze upon you again, running a hand through his hair to part it in four streaks.

     “You would not leave them to join me.”

     The very thought of leaving your home shook you to the core. The offer in itself was gracious and one you could not believe would be made. Most elves looked down upon man. Even the act of bringing them to their homeland to heal them was unexpected.

     “I do not think I could.” You answer honestly. Thranduil gave a solitary nod.

     “Then may I have your company for the remainder of your time here?”

     Your attention snaps from calm collection to a nervous flutter that starts in your chest and sinks down to the very core of your being.

     “You already have my attention and share the pool. What more could you want asides from my spoiled mood and displaced temper?” The words were meant to cut through, to put up the façade that you were stronger, now, and that you were not as weary from war, from loss, and from the reality of it all.

     “I wish nothing more than to ease both of the burdens within our souls. Of our loss.”

     It struck you, the implication that he felt as deeply for the loss of his people that you did. He seemed far too human now, far too feeble to hold the king title and yet how long has he been burdened with such a position? To hold the mask of indifference and calmness to keep his kingdom whole when he, too, has experienced loss and grief. To whom has he been able to cry out to?

     “Aye.”

     With the permission granted, Thranduil came forward, moving slowly through the water until he stood before you. You had to look up, now, with the stance he took. He reached out, fingers brushing across your cheek, thumb pressing against your lips.

     “I am sorry.” He whispers and you can’t stop the strangled laugh that wracks through your body. You laugh at the situation, at the apology. You laugh at the tears that threaten to spill again. You feel him lean in as he tucks his palm against he back of your head, bringing you forward and presses his lips against yours gently. A mere press of flesh against flesh.

     It is enough to break the stick built damn within yourself and you feel the tears slip down your cheeks again. There was no shame in your crying, the grief being the thing that brought you two together. His arms come around you, gathering you up against his chest as you continue to let the emotion wash over you, as you begin to shake, and you faintly hear his words, elvish and beautiful. They bring some sort of comfort as he strokes his fingers up and down your back, drawing patterns, circles, writing that you don’t understand.

     “It hurts so much.” You whisper against him, turning your cheek to lie against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart.

     “I know.” He returns to your common. You tilt your head up, lips seeking out his and they are met again though this time they are parting and you feel the flick of his tongue, the smooth stroke of it against yours. Your hands settle down to his hips, thumbs smoothing inwards feeling along his thighs, feeling the hair between his legs. He inhales sharply as you take him in hand, fingers curling around the length of him.

     “So beautiful…” He praises gently as you twist your wrist, palm holding open as you stroke him. He rocks into your grip, a semblance to what he wanted to fuck into. His hands take your face, palms again cradling your skull as he kissed again, open mouthed onto your lips, your chin, tilting your head to the side to let his lips lay against your neck.

     When teeth scrape against your skin you jolt, letting out a low moan. He does it again, harder and kisses it, bites again. A repeat until the stretch was sore to the lightest of his kisses. A marking set in broken skin and darkened blood. Claimed as his, if only for the evening.

     “Thranduil I –“

     Your hand stalls as his arms slip down beneath your bottom, lifting you up. He replaced your seating, sitting down where you once sat and pulled you closer. Your legs splayed on either side of his hips and you felt his cock slip against you, up against your sex.

     “Please…” Your voice cracks as you arch against him. His hands cup the swell of your breasts instead, hips arching up again. Thranduil ignores your please, your gasping breath and takes your breast into his mouth, tongue pressing against your nipple, sucking at it as he pulls back, teeth catching before his lips claim it again.

     His eyes flick up to yours, catching your gaze and you feel the heat between your legs flare.

     “Please,” You try again. “Please, Thranduil.”

     He smiles around your skin, kissing the tip of your breast before a hand takes your hip, helping you steady yourself in the water, the other taking himself in hand. He helps himself line correctly and he pushes in slowly, angling himself to push further. You felt the stretch, the easy slide inwards. You pitched forward when he bucks up, his pelvis meeting yours and you felt the full flesh of him against you.

     “Look at me.” His command was still soft and you lifted your eyes to his.

     They held the sadness, the grief. They were beautiful.

     Thranduil moved, pulling himself back only to push forward again. It was a slow fuck, both of your movement’s tender and sweet, taking the time to learn and to both give and take. With every rock forward, you rocked down, pulling yourself into his embrace with every movement. His arms took you in, shielding you away from the world as he breathed a new life into your lungs, a shared breath that you, too, returned in earnest.

     There were no explosions, no earth shattering cries, nothing of the tales that you heard whispered between the young women at home when he came. You felt him still within you; felt his body taught and felt his fingers dig into your back. Warmth spread between your thighs, different than the water and your own slick and that was it. The pleasure was taken.

     His breath was warm against your cheek as he slowly rolled against, edging out his pleasure. His lips pressed against yours again as he reached between warm bodies, his fingertips crawling down from your stomach to where you both met and he pressed his thumb upwards, sliding against your clit. He nipped at your shoulder, dragging his lips up your neck as his fingers worked faster, curling and pressing, stroking the fire into a blaze.

     You worked with his tempo, your hips encouraging his variance. Your lips dropped his name, your tongue working over the beautiful sounds of it as you came, clenching around his softening cock.

     Uncertainty came, suddenly, the cold harshness of reality sinking into your skin as Thranduil moved to part from you, only enough to slip from your body. He kept you in his arms, silent in his curious study of your face. A hand lifted, combing water though your hair and then repeated on the other side.

     “Do not overthink this.”

     He waited. For an answer, perhaps, but you had no words to express what you thought. People were still dead. Your home still destroyed. The magic of lost thought had diminished so quickly after the distraction. Instead your arms came around his neck, pulling yourself closer. Two beating hearts matching against the press of skin.

     “Stay with me the evening.” His words tickled your ear. “Please.”

     War was cruel. War was not kind. But yet war brought a semblance of beauty from its ashes.

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out at grumpygrahams.tumblr.com


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